Iconic London poet Charles Brady had to be rescued from the inside of a buffalo this week, at Dublin’s Raven Hotel in Ireland. Brady told Glossy News:
“I’d been booked to do a reading at The Ireland Poetry Festival and just happened to be staying in the same hotel as some of the world’s most revered poets. The prospect of rubbing shoulders with writers of the highest calibre excited me immensely. I arrived at the hotel reception and there was a huge dead buffalo lying in front of the reception desk. This was puzzling. Why was it there on a Thursday?
“Surely the beast hadn’t intended to book a room for the night – suddenly collapsing in the reception area before the booking arrangement had been completed. I just couldn’t imagine a buffalo staying in a hotel room, breaking all the mattress springs, having a shower, eating the curtains, trying to have wild bestial intercourse with the lamp shade, calling room service –
‘good evening sir, how can I help?’ (room service)
‘can you repeat that sir?’ (room service)
‘I’m not understanding all of what you say.
If you require an eight o’clock morning call go –
gggrroolaeeemm’ (room service)
‘what?, half of that noise? oh you mean half
past eight?’ (room service)
‘oh I understand now – you have a stutter’ (room service).
The buffalo was so big the only way I could get my room key from the receptionist was by climbing through the middle of the animal.
My agenda that evening was to mingle in the hotel bar with some of the world’s finest poets, to exchange ideas and
discuss our mutual passion for literature over a cocktail or two into the early hours.
Instead the Dublin Fire Brigade had to pull me through the buffalo’s asshole with a rope.
The commotion attracted every poet in the hotel. They guffawed and mocked my excruciating ordeal as I tried to retain some dignity
by making an announcement combined with an impromptu poem –
‘ladies and gentlemen, unfortunately I have lost a shoe in the rescue
but it’s a privilege to meet you. I’ve got myself into a mess, and as I
stand here in a state of undress, I hope you’ll understand that I had
planned, on reciting some poetry for you this evening, but as you can
see I am underwear free. They vanished like my dreams, so you know
what that means. My writing career has trickled away like water under
a bridge, especially as there is buffalo intestines all over my love sausage.'”